


Mon Coeur S’Arrête

by ryme_intrinseca



Category: Original Work
Genre: Case Fic, Complicated Relationships, Detectives, Historical, M/M, Paris (City), Puns & Word Play, Secret Crush, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/pseuds/ryme_intrinseca
Summary: Steel hissed as Martin drew his sword.“Oh, you don’t need that.” Stepping forward, Le Chasseur pushed the blade aside with a fastidious finger. “We’re old friends, you and I. Friends don’t need to resort to threats to make themselves heard.”
Relationships: Phantom Thief Planning One Last Heist/Detective Devoted To Catching Them
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Mon Coeur S’Arrête

**Author's Note:**

  * For [comicArtistA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comicArtistA/gifts).



The gaslights sputtered and flared, the glow reflecting like feeble moons in the thick waters of the Seine. The river smelled bad this evening, the familiar marshy stink mixed in with the scent of decay. Inspector Martin Vauzelle pressed a hand to his nose as he hurried along the Quai du Louvre. On his right rose the solid fortified square of the old château, now one of the greatest museums in the world. The new wings built by the former emperor stretched away into the darkness. Imagine all the treasures that lay inside. All the priceless, irreplaceable treasures.

Martin paused beneath a lamp and took the calling card from his jacket pocket. The rectangle of pasteboard was creased now, the sharp corners blunted from the number of times he’d turned it in his hand. He passed it beneath his nose, as if it still held the trace of cologne that had lingered in the envelope when it had been delivered to his desk five days ago.

He could smell nothing but the river.

No matter. Le Chasseur’s fragrance was one he’d recognise anywhere. The hint of ambergris married to the sweetness of vanilla, with amber adding a touch of the exotic... Martin had been visiting every perfumier in the city, searching for the one who distilled the scent to order. So far he’d found fourteen.

Le Chasseur was no fool. Martin knew that, but still he’d checked. It was his job to be thorough. And if his colleagues muttered that he was obsessed with catching Le Chasseur, well, that was true enough. He’d advanced in his career thanks to his hunt for The Hunter. During the five years of the chase, Martin had risen from a hollow-eyed ex-army sergeant to an inspector, recovering items worth hundreds of thousands of francs along the way.

But he’d never laid hands on Le Chasseur himself. He’d come close on several occasions. Tantalisingly close. But always his quarry had slipped away, leaping from an open second-floor window and using a canopy below to break his fall, or causing firecrackers to explode from his elegant ebony and gold cane as a distraction. No matter how impossible the location, Le Chasseur seemed to find a way out of it.

Martin turned the calling card to the light. Maybe tonight would be the night he held The Hunter at bay. He re-read the lines, written in a careless scrawl, that he already knew by heart:

_He is neither man nor beast._  
_1st._  
_Come alone._  
_\- C_

From the very beginning, Le Chasseur had sent his calling cards to every station house in the city. The note included always followed the same formula: a line suggesting what manner of object would be stolen, and a number indicating which arrondissement it would be stolen from. From long experience of tracking Le Chasseur, Martin knew the thief struck five days after the delivery of the card, and usually between the hours of two and three in the morning.

He checked his pocket watch. It was quarter to two now.

Tucking the card back into his jacket, Martin advanced on the Louvre. Though Le Chasseur had invited the whole of the Sûreté to catch him, Martin had been the only officer instructed to come alone. The knowledge made Martin’s heart beat faster, anticipation uncurling like a fist.

Le Chasseur knew he’d unravel the clue. How could he think otherwise, when Martin had been the first on the scene at all but one of The Hunter’s grand thefts? Sometimes, Martin wondered if his opponent was not crafting the robberies as a way of luring him in. Sometimes it felt as if Le Chasseur could read him.

The quote on the card he’d recognised courtesy of a father who’d taught at the University of Poitiers. ‘He is neither man nor beast,’ the Bishop of Pamiers had said of King Philip IV, back in the late thirteenth century. ‘He is a statue.’

There were plenty of statues in the First arrondissement, but for a thief of Le Chasseur’s calibre and tastes, there was only one, and that stood in the Louvre. Surely, Martin thought, his adversary intended to steal the Vénus de Milo. Surely nothing else would do for a thief of such refined aesthetics.

Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. He recalled how, after the first couple of cases—the theft of a ducal Book of Hours from the National Library, the lifting of a sapphire and diamond collar said to have belonged to Madame de Montespan from a private residence in Saint-Germain-des-Prés—the news sheets started referring to the thief as The Phantom.

A short while later, every periodical carried a letter written by the man himself, in which he declared himself disappointed at the lack of imagination amongst the city’s journalists. He was not a phantom but a hunter, collecting pieces of art and cultural artefacts with the same eye for precision and timing as a man hunting a prize stag.

The newspapers had apologised en masse, and Le Chasseur had ensured his own legend.

Martin’s smile turned grimly determined as he raised his gaze to the darkened windows of the Louvre. Legends came to an end; all stories reached a climax. Tonight, he would bring the legend of Le Chasseur to its conclusion.

~~~

Inside the museum, it was almost preternaturally quiet. Martin had visited during the day, but at night the ancient statues, contorted and frozen, seemed to loom at him from the darkness. The uncertain gleam from the lantern he’d taken from the empty custodian’s office did nothing to make his task easier. Several times he’d tensed in readiness to shout a challenge at a flickering of light elsewhere in the halls, only to realise it was a reflection of his own lantern distorted and given back by the polished marble facings on the walls.

It was cold without the passage of visitors. Martin kept moving, sliding from shadow to shadow. His scabbard knocked against a doorjamb, the sound echoing along the corridor. He froze, but saw nothing, heard nothing.

Not even the night-watchmen were abroad. On his way in, Martin had noticed that the guards usually posted in the Cour du Louvre were absent. Either they’d been well paid to be elsewhere, or they were gagged and bound down in the château’s basement.

Hopefully Martin’s colleagues would discover their whereabouts in an hour or so, which was when he’d arranged for his deputy to receive the order to attend an incident at the Louvre.

He checked his watch again. Almost two o’clock. He crossed the threshold and stood in contemplation of the marble beauty of the Vénus de Milo.

There was no one else in the hall. No sign of a block and tackle to move such a large and heavy object, no crate and packing straw into which she might be stashed. Suspicious, Martin moved his lantern closer and examined the statue. No evidence of tampering where she stood, no scuff marks or marble dust. He reached out and laid a hand on the goddess’s marble skin. She felt cold, but what else did he expect?

He walked all the way around her, unable to shake a niggling feeling. This was the real Vénus, he’d swear to it. And yet—he glanced again at his watch—it was now a quarter past two, and there was no sign of Le Chasseur.

Had he got it wrong? Leapt after an obvious conclusion? Damn it, he’d been so sure Le Chasseur would choose the Vénus. It’d be just his luck if one of his colleagues from the First or, worse still, that bastard Lespinasse from the Fourth, worked it out and snatched victory from him—

Wait.

Victory.

 _Victory_.

An expletive broke the hush of the gallery, and Martin began to run. _Putain_ , he was an idiot! It wasn’t the Vénus de Milo at risk, it was the Winged Victory of Samothrace, that elegant monument of triumph over adversity.

The pounding of his feet echoed through the galleries. He shoved through the doors, none of them locked, the lantern held before him. Light bobbed ahead of him, showing him a path through the Rotonde to the vestibule of the Grand Escalier. It was colder here, in this recently completed part of the museum. The cupolas were bare of decoration, and the walls seemed to absorb the glow from his lantern.

He paused to catch his breath, then mounted the staircase. At the turn of the landing, the Winged Victory stood proud upon the carved prow of a stone ship. A lamp had been placed on the floor beneath her, throwing into sharp relief the delicate modelling of the goddess’s draperies. The sculptor’s skill was remarkable, and while Martin had no carnal taste for a woman’s body, he admired the triumph enshrined in the statue’s form. It was like a Marianne with wings.

His gaze snapped back to the lamp. Putting his own lantern down, he approached, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

Darkness pressed around him. As before, there was no sign of lifting gear. Le Chasseur always worked alone, but without levers and cranes, it would be impossible for even the strongest man to steal a statue of these dimensions. Was the thief planning on bringing in a crew to assist him? If so, where were they?

Martin ventured up the steps towards the next gallery. Had he made another mistake? He frowned, trying to remember what else might tempt The Hunter, when he heard a soft thud behind him.

He swung back to see Le Chasseur straightening from a crouch and dusting himself down. The thief had been concealed behind the body of the Winged Victory; the lamp on the floor had thrown up enough light to deepen the shadows, and Martin cursed himself for not making a more thorough check. His hand tightened on his weapon, but he didn’t draw.

Le Chasseur made a flourish with his white-gloved hands and stood as if for inspection, a smile bringing sudden warmth to the grand, austere surroundings. He was dressed in his usual black velvet frockcoat, his boots polished to a high gloss. A brocade waistcoat over a starched linen shirt was set off by a burgundy silk cravat, knotted casually. He wore a top hat pulled low over his forehead and a black half-mask decorated with golden lions.

“Good evening, Inspector.” Le Chasseur’s smile deepened. “I must confess, I thought you weren’t going to join me.”

Martin gave a dismissive shrug. “I thought you were after the Vénus de Milo.”

“Really? I find that lady a little too obvious.” Reaching up, Le Chasseur patted the curving ship’s prow. “This one, however… Who can resist a Victory?”

Steel hissed as Martin drew his sword.

“Oh, you don’t need that.” Stepping forward, Le Chasseur pushed the blade aside with a fastidious finger. “We’re old friends, you and I. Friends don’t need to resort to threats to make themselves heard.”

“We’re not friends,” Martin said through gritted teeth.

“Perhaps not. But we could be.”

“I’m here to arrest you, not join your confraternity of crime!”

Amusement gleamed in the lively eyes peering from the mask. “That was not the kind of relationship I was envisioning, Martin.”

It made him jump to hear his name from The Hunter’s lips. It shouldn’t be a surprise: The news sheets had linked their names often enough. He was the officer who, more than anyone else in Paris, had foiled Le Chasseur’s crimes. But even so, hearing his name in that cut-glass accent… It did something to his insides.

Martin shook off the spell and forced himself to think dispassionately, to notice everything for his eventual report. At their last encounter, Le Chasseur had worn a _pike-devant_ and had grey hair; now he was clean-shaven, with a tumble of tawny, gold-tipped curls peeping from beneath the brim of his hat.

Descending the steps, Martin came to within a few feet of the thief. Close enough to smell Le Chasseur’s cologne. It made him dizzy. He told himself it was from the anticipation of making an arrest, not anything else.

“I’m glad you wore your uniform for me. You look so dashing.” The thief was practically purring. “I wasn’t always susceptible to a man in uniform. It was one very special encounter that started me on that path…”

Martin snorted. “I’m sure I don’t need to hear about your _encounters_.”

Perhaps he’d spoken too vehemently. A startled look crossed Le Chasseur’s face, and then the thief tipped his head on a grin of delight. “Why, Inspector Vauzelle! Are you jealous? I don’t know why. You’ve held me in your arms before, you know.”

The statement robbed Martin of any retort he would have made. It took his breath, too, and he stood stock-still, gaping at the man before him.

“It’s true.” The Hunter was on the prowl now, coming closer and closer.

Martin raised his sword again, then gave a cry as a weighted length of braided silk shot from within Le Chasseur’s sleeve. A flick and twist, and the blade clattered aside. Martin rushed at the thief, intent on driving him back, but Le Chasseur drew his hands through the air in a series of swift gestures. The weighted rope followed, snaking around and looping under. A sharp jerk, and Martin found himself with his wrists bound, his arms yanked over his head and the remainder of the rope lassoed around the Winged Victory.

“Bastard!” Martin struggled, but only succeeded in pulling the loop tighter about his wrists. There was also an ominous scrape of stone against stone. He stopped moving. The last thing he wanted was to destroy a priceless ancient Greek statue.

He contented himself with glaring at Le Chasseur. The thief seemed impervious, stepping in so close he could see the curl of The Hunter’s lashes against the eyeholes in the mask. The glow from the lamp flattered Le Chasseur, his face changing and blurring as he turned his head in and out of the shadows.

“You don’t remember? Ah, Inspector, how sad. You must have many lovers, to render me so forgettable.”

“I don’t.” Martin knew he was being baited, but couldn’t help himself. “The last one—the last one was months ago.”

“Yes?” Le Chasseur adjusted Martin’s kepi to a rakish angle then trailed gloved fingers over his cheek, down his neck to his chest.

Unable to back down, Martin snapped, “The last time I was with a man was in March.”

“I know.” Le Chasseur smiled. “Café de Flore.”

Realisation hit like a charging bull. Martin swallowed, his gaze suddenly fixed to the features half-revealed before him. Could it be…? Oh holy God, it _was_. Le Chasseur was the young man seated in the corner, the beautiful boy who’d been keeping his thoughts to himself.

Heat crawled through Martin, memories from that night assaulting him.

It had been the one time he’d been slow to understand the clue on Le Chasseur’s calling card. So slow, that by the time he’d arrived at the Hôtel de Sully, his colleague from the Fourth was already there, standing guard over a collection of valuable porcelain and bragging of how he’d wounded The Hunter. Lespinasse had shown off the blade, a smear of blood still on the steel, and Martin had felt sick to think of his thief at the mercy of such a dull, clumping _poulet_.

In the aftermath, he’d tried to escape the clamour and self-recrimination by sitting in a noisy café, the haunt of poets and philosophers, revolutionaries and pacifists. It offered the perfect way to block out reality. And it was working—until he laid eyes on a beautiful young man sitting alone at a corner table.

Martin had watched him, not quite aware of the hunger in his gaze until the young man had smiled and lifted his chin in tacit invitation.

He’d gone over at once. The boy had grey eyes made dark by the gaslights, and reddish hair that curled too long over his collar. There was no textbook on the table, no copy of Voltaire or Marx. No clutter of coffee cups or pastis or absinthe, just a glass of water. Nothing to take down notes or record witticisms or profundities, just his elegant hands with short, square nails, and white cuffs loose about tender wrist bones. No cologne, just soap and water. Clean and fresh, he was an innocent unsullied by the world.

To Martin, he’d looked like a light in the darkness; and like a moth, he’d been drawn towards that flame.

“Are you alone?”

The young man had smiled. “My thoughts are my constant companions,” he’d said, “but now there’s you.”

Emboldened, Martin leaned across and traced a fingertip over the back of the boy’s hand, running the caress up beneath the cuff. “Care to share your thoughts?”

“I keep them to myself, for then they do no harm.”

Martin laughed. “Are they so dangerous?”

The young man’s eyes blazed. “For some, they could be. For others…”

Transfixed, Martin touched the boy’s face, catching his breath on a hiss and a punch of arousal when the young man turned his head enough for Martin to slide his thumb between those soft, slick lips.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his heart thundering and his throat so thick he could barely speak.

“Oscar.” The young man scraped his teeth over the pad of Martin’s thumb and released him. “Now do you believe me about dangerous thoughts?”

“Thoughts are not the same as deeds.”

Oscar had smiled, the glitter in his eyes and the flush on his cheekbones making him even more irresistible. “You’re right. They’re not.”

They’d left separately, and, coming together in an alley a number of streets away, had devoured one another, hands and kisses, cold air and hot mouths, desire pinned and helpless until it crested free, fast and wild.

The memory of his orgasm rolled through Martin, making him strain and quiver in his bonds. He groaned. “God, I’m a fool.”

“No, oh no,” Le Chasseur reassured him, eyes wide behind the mask. “That night, I almost told you who I was. When you held me, afterwards… When you stroked my hair and murmured such sweet endearments, I came so close to being undone.”

Martin snarled. “But instead of spilling secrets, you spilled— No matter. Is your name even Oscar? You’ve been playing me all this time. Why? Does it amuse you?”

His anger was palpable. Le Chasseur—Oscar—flinched from it, his mouth down-tilting. “God, no. How could you think that? Martin, I wanted you. I have since the start. This—all of this—it’s been for you.”

And maybe Martin was losing his mind, because had his arch-enemy just confessed to—to… what, exactly?

“Explain it to me.”

Oscar moved away, out of the pool of lamplight. “This is my last theft.” His voice was soft, the echo faint on the staircase. “I wanted to share it with you, the man who has done more to foil my efforts than any other. We are two halves of the same whole, don’t you think? What is illumination for one is shadow for the other. Without you, I wouldn’t be as celebrated. Without me… Well, let’s say we are constructions of each other’s making.”

Martin took the opportunity afforded by Le Chasseur’s distance and tugged at the braid around his wrists. If he could slide one hand free… “No,” he said loudly. “You’re a criminal, and I’m a police officer.”

“Thus proving my point.” Oscar turned on his heel and, sweeping off his hat, ran a gloved hand through his hair, loosening his curls. “If you see my face again, perhaps you’ll understand.”

Understand what? Baffled, Martin hung motionless, his heart beating as he watched Le Chasseur unknot the cravat, revealing the smooth line of his jaw, and remove the mask.

Oscar stepped back into the light. He was as beautiful as Martin remembered, thick brows arching over watchful eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. Perhaps a sculptor would find fault with the square chin and the length of his nose, but Martin didn’t care.

“You don’t recognise me.”

He stared for a long moment, then shook his head. Oscar was the boy from Café de Flore, but beyond that… “I’m sorry.”

Agitation made Oscar fidget. “Look again. Think again.”

Martin wriggled his aching shoulders and tried his best to remember. “I’ve been a policeman for a long time,” he began by way of apology.

“I understand. You can’t be expected to recollect every victim you save.” Oscar sighed, his disappointment evident before he turned away again.

“Victim? Have we met before?” As if that would narrow it down. Martin had transferred from the military into the police force eleven years ago, and those first few years had been busy, to say the least. “Before—this?”

“Yes.” Le Chasseur stood at the head of the stairs, looking down into the vestibule. Away from him. “This very night, in fact, eight years ago.”

 _Merde_ , but Martin felt bad for not remembering. He didn’t remember a whole lot about those days, if truth be told. He’d been drinking too much, partly to block out the memory of the war and partly in an effort to stay warm. Paris had been a different city in those days, full of ghosts and the ruins of empire. A place of shattered dreams and splintered hope.

“Oscar.” He cleared his throat of its huskiness. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember you at all.” 

“I was a fool to think you might.” Le Chasseur came back, footsteps quick and light. He placed a finger on Martin’s lips, the look in his eyes intense and passionate. “But the whole point of a fool is to tell the truth. To see what others don’t see, and to bring it to the light.”

Martin puzzled over his words. “Eight years ago…”

“In the Marais.” A brief, rueful smile. “I was young and stupid, and rich enough to believe those traits could only be positive. I’d gone out drinking with friends, but lost them as we went from one tavern to the next. It was not a problem; I made new friends as the night wore on. But I ended the evening alone, drunk and stumbling as I tried to navigate my way home.

“I was set upon by a gang of cutpurses. Being young and stupid and drunk, I fought back. They decided to have some sport with me. They took my money, my watch, and would have taken the clothes on my back and what was left of my virtue if you hadn’t interrupted them.” Oscar’s face was lit with the memory. “Though there were four of them, armed with daggers and broken bottles, you drew your sword and charged. One ran at once with my valuables, but you hurled a brick at him and brought him down. The others you fought.”

It was always strange to hear his actions narrated by an observer. Martin shrugged, using the gesture to work at his bonds. “I was doing my job.”

“That’s what you said eight years ago.” Le Chasseur shook his head, gold-tipped curls dancing. “But I’d never seen anyone fight like that. As if the men who’d attacked me were demons, and you were determined to send them back to hell.”

Martin shuffled his feet. “It was a different world back then.” The city had been suffering the aftermath of a defeat in war and the fervid revolutionary violence of the Communards. The spectre of martial law was still fresh in people’s minds. Criminals from every layer of society had thrived on the devastation caused by the collapse of the government.

“I was a different man, too.” He turned his head to avoid Oscar’s scrutiny. “The war. The violence. I was drinking a lot.” Martin swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “I was lost, I suppose.”

“But you found me.”

“I was doing my job.” It had been the one thing he could count on, in those days. The unchanging ritual of dressing in his uniform and going on patrol. Tracking miscreants and criminals and bringing them to justice. It was a purpose, not a calling. It kept him sane.

Martin shied away from the memories. Easier to try to remember the incident that had made such an impression on Oscar. The spark of recollection sputtered. “In the Marais, you said? By the river, wasn’t it?”

“No.” Le Chasseur gave a shaky laugh. “Looks like I really was that forgettable back then. But I was only sixteen. A stupid boy who should have known better.” He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I didn’t forget you, though. How could I, when you were so handsome, so brave? At the time I couldn’t express my gratitude quickly enough. It wasn’t sufficient for me to say it multiple times, I had to come to your station house with a basket of flowers to say thank you again…”

Martin winced. “I don’t even remember the flowers.”

“I think perhaps your superior took them for his wife.” Tipping his head back, Oscar gazed at Martin. “He told me you were just doing your job and wouldn’t thank a rich boy like me for making you a hero. ‘We are all citizens’, he said, right before he sent me packing. And that got me thinking.

“I watched you, followed your career, and realised you didn’t care. All the good you did, all the criminals arrested and all the justice you saw done, you allowed others to take the credit. I saw the void in your eyes the night you saved me, and I knew it was wrong. I wanted you to see yourself as I saw you. As others saw you. Not simply a man doing his job, but a hero.”

A host of uncomfortable thoughts crept squirming through Martin. “Are you telling me… Are you saying that all this—Le Chasseur and the calling cards, the daring thefts and the publicity, my promotions and the gratitude of the city—all of this was because you wanted to say ‘thank you’?” 

Oscar managed a smile. “It got a little bit out of hand.”

“A _little_?” Martin stared, absorbing the ramifications. “All this time, all the years I’ve been pursuing you… It wasn’t real? It was some kind of—of— illusion?”

“I really did steal all those things,” Le Chasseur assured him. “There was nothing illusory about that.”

Martin groaned and knocked his head back against the stone ship. “Yes, you stole them—but you let me recover them.”

“Not all of them.” In a flash of temper, Oscar folded his arms and firmed his jaw. “I kept a gorgeous Ming dynasty ginger-jar I took from the Hôtel de Sully as compensation for that pig Lespinasse ruining my favourite coat, and I have a pink pearl that belonged to Madame de Montespan, not to mention an exquisite little breviary I lifted from the National Library alongside the far more famous Book of Hours…”

“I hated Lespinasse for hurting you,” Martin murmured.

Oscar’s lips parted, his words arrested. His vexed expression softened. “You did? But, _lapin_ , the only damage he did was to my coat. If he claimed otherwise, he was lying.”

“He said he’d stabbed you.”

“You had your hands all over me only a few hours later.” Oscar’s smile quirked. “Lespinasse was not the one stabbing me that evening.”

A blush scalded Martin’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and straightened as best he could, given his undignified position. They seemed to have strayed some distance from the point of the interrogation. Because, even tied up at the mercy of his arch-enemy, who’d been his lover for a night and maybe wasn’t even his enemy at all, Martin was determined to stay in control of this encounter.

Even if he was fooling himself.

“Very well, you really are a thief,” he said, and saw Oscar preen a little. “But you surrendered the majority of the stolen artefacts.”

“I hid them, certainly.” Le Chasseur had gone all huffy again. “But it was you who found them. I didn’t give you any extra clues. The same with the calling cards. You were the one who understood the references. It’s not like I tailored them specifically for you. Any halfway intelligent _poulet_ should have understood, and yet, on all but one occasion, it was always you who found me first.”

Martin wanted to be angry. His pride had been dented, yes; but was that such a bad thing? He had spent the last five years doing real detective work, using the skills and experience he’d gained from his pursuit of Le Chasseur on hundreds of other cases. His promotions had been honestly earned, and his rank gave him the opportunity to encourage other policemen starting out on the beat to aim higher.

And really, if you thought about it, none of this was remotely out of the ordinary. His superiors in the Sûreté all had patrons to smooth their way—former schoolfriends now in the civil service, politicians or wealthy businessmen. So what if Martin’s patron happened to be a criminal? At least Le Chasseur was honest about it.

Martin burst out laughing.

“You’re not angry?” Oscar looked at him as if he’d lost his wits.

Tears of mirth streaked his face. Martin spluttered again, shaking his head. “No. Yes. Ask me again when I’m not tied up.” He gave an experimental tug on the braided silk rope and lifted an eyebrow, grinning. “And on that subject, while you’ve got me at your mercy…”

A breathless laugh escaped Oscar. “You think I would take advantage?”

“You’re a thief. I think you should.”

Oscar moved towards him as Martin swayed forward, the muscles in his arms complaining. He kissed Le Chasseur, taking the moan of pleasure from Oscar’s lips and feeling it reverberate right down to his toes. Oscar’s skin was cool, but his mouth was hot, as hot as it had been that night back in March. He tasted a little of wine, and his scent, that wonderful blend of vanilla, amber, and ambergris, tickled Martin’s senses.

“Rue Cloche-Perce,” he said when they parted. “That’s where I found you, eight years ago.”

Oscar gazed at him, grey eyes brilliant. “You remember?”

“Your cologne,” he said, somewhat helplessly. “It’s unforgettable.”

Oscar kissed him again, fierce this time, then pulled away to cock his head to one side. A frown appeared on his brow. “Martin, did you somehow alert your colleagues to our whereabouts, or do you think that Lespinasse has worked out the clue about the statue?”

Martin heard it, too: the shrilling of a police whistle, the battery of fists against a door, the sound of shouts and running feet.

He gave Oscar an apologetic look. “I left a message to be delivered to my deputy at a certain time. You know, in case I needed any help to bring you in.”

“Ah. It was a good idea.” Oscar stepped back with a regretful sigh. “I should be going, then.”

“Yes. You should.” His wrists were rubbed raw and stinging with sweat, but Martin began easing his right hand free. “What about the statue?”

Oscar’s smile was dazzling. “That’s not what I planned on stealing tonight.”

He grabbed Martin’s collar and kissed him, open-mouthed and hungry. As he drew away, his breathing erratic and bright spots of colour on his cheekbones, Oscar slipped a couple of things into Martin’s jacket pocket. Then he straightened Martin’s kepi and backed away.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Martin watched him ascend the staircase to the Picture Gallery and waited until he could no longer hear the swift tread of Oscar’s footsteps. Only then did he slide his hand free. It was easy enough to pull his left hand loose, and he cursed long and loud as he shrugged sensation back into his shoulders and shook out his arms.

He retrieved his fallen sword and sheathed it. The shouts of the police were getting closer, voices echoing along the halls. They sounded like a herd of elephants. Martin leaned against the stone prow beneath the Winged Victory and examined the items Oscar had given him.

A calling card, inscribed in the most elegant calligraphy. _Oscar de Sabran_ , it said, with an address on Boulevard Saint-Germain. And a brass key with an ornate head.

Smiling, Martin slipped the key and the card back into his pocket. He stood tall, the Victory behind him, and prepared to greet his colleagues with a tale of how Le Chasseur had got away.


End file.
